Megan arrived at the law office expecting closure. Just two weeks had passed since her husband Tom’s sudden passing, and the weight of grief still clung to her—quiet, heavy, ever-present. What she didn’t expect was how quickly everything would shift again.
That morning had begun like the others since Tom’s loss: quiet chaos. Her three kids were squabbling in the backseat over something trivial. “It’s mine!” Noah shouted. “You had it long enough!” Eli replied sharply. Their younger sister Lily, ever the calm one, gently asked them to stop. Megan, holding the wheel with a tired grip, simply said, “Please. Enough.” The silence that followed was uneasy.
Since Tom’s passing, Megan had done her best to keep the household moving forward, but the sense of something missing was always there—especially in Eli, who had grown unusually quiet.
After school drop-off, Megan allowed herself a rare moment to grieve alone. Sitting in the car, she wept. A photo fell from the sun visor: an old snapshot of her and Tom smiling on a beach, wind in their hair. She held it close, gathered her strength, and walked into the law office.
The room was pristine—cool metal, polished wood, the scent of lemon cleaner. A poised woman greeted her with a smooth, professional tone. “I’m Jennifer Green. Tom’s attorney.” Something in her demeanor seemed distant, but Megan dismissed it.
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